


Take Out

by MinP1072



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gutterbugs, Le Classy Caniveau, Lizzington - Freeform, promptathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 12:26:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7051357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinP1072/pseuds/MinP1072
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, so this isn’t officially Tumblr Prompt-a-thon! fodder, but inspired/shamelessly stolen from a suggestion by @sarlyne AGES ago and it’s been hanging around in my brain since. I had to get it out. The original post said:</p>
<p>“Headcanons that Lizzie one time accidentally presses 7 and not 6 on her speed dial, thus calling Red and ordering Chinese food from him without realizing it because he is too amused to say anything. And twenty minutes later he shows up at her doorstep with two bags of takeaway.”</p>
<p>Here’s what I ended up with. It’s, um…smutty. Like, REALLY smutty. Don’t read it at work. Or around other people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Out

Liz bangs into her motel room, slamming the door behind her in relief. Some days on the Task Force are longer than others, and this one has been nearly unbearably so. She roots her cell phone out of her bag, then drops it onto the miserable excuse for a desk, kicking off her boots with a groan.

She’s exhausted, annoyed, and ravenous — _comfort food_ , she thinks, _is the way to go tonight_. She strips off her jacket and picks up her cell again, activating it as she unbuttons her pants. She’s undressing as she goes for the speed dial, and trips on her cuffs just as she taps at the screen, slamming into the bed frame, dropping the phone, and swearing as pain shoots through her shins. She hears part of a fuzzy greeting and manages to pick up the phone before the silence gets too long.

“Hi,” she says breathlessly. “I’m so sorry about that. It’s Liz Keen at the Highlander? Can I get an order of beef and broccoli, a vegetable chow mein, and an egg roll, delivered, please? It’s room 108.”

There’s a brief pause, then the muffled voice on the other end agrees.

“Twenty minutes,” it says cheerily.

“Oh, thank you,” she replies, but they’ve already hung up. _They didn’t give me the total_ , she thinks — but it’s not as if she doesn’t know it by heart. She’ll just change and watch HGTV, and try not to think.

* * *

Red looks around the living area of tonight’s safe house with relative indifference — it’s nothing special, if comfortable, but has the advantage of being close to Lizzie’s motel. With the unusual pleasure of a quiet night to himself stretching out in front of him, it could have been a rat-infested warehouse and still worked for him.

He takes off his hat and jacket, lays them carefully over the arm of a stiff-looking chair, then wanders over to the much more appealing sofa and stretches out with a heavy sigh — it’s been a long day. And yet, despite looking forward to time alone, he is unaccountably restless. It’s too quiet. He loosens his tie and shifts position, trying to decide if he wants to eat, or read, or drink, or just try and sleep. His thoughts are interrupted by the vibration of the phone in his pocket.

_That didn’t take long_ , he thinks grumpily, fishing the thing out to check the display. It’s Lizzie, though, and his mood immediately brightens.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Lizzie?” he asks cheerfully.

The only response is a muffled rustling, a loud thud, and then a string of inventive curses that make him smile. Just as he is about to call out to her again, her voice comes over the line, harried but friendly, and…ordering Chinese food.

He opens his mouth to correct her, but changes his mind almost instantly. _After all_ , he thinks, _I_ should _eat, and some down time together might put us on easier terms_.

Deliberately muffling his voice so that she won’t recognize him, he assents that he has her order, and, checking his watch, gives it twenty minutes. Hanging up quickly, he rolls off the couch and shrugs back into his jacket.

_This should be fun_.

* * *

The knock on the motel door comes just past the twenty-minute mark — _not bad_ , she thinks. She’s been lounging in t-shirt and underwear; she slips into her robe and grabs her wallet out of her bag on the way to the door.

She opens the door without checking the peephole — a mistake she _really_ needs to stop making, she reminds herself, as she comes face-to-face with Reddington instead of Dave, the delivery guy. She’s momentarily speechless at the sight of him, lounging against the doorframe, a cat-smug smile on his face, his fedora tilted over his eyes.

“Do you always answer the door like that?” he rumbles, a faint hint of disapproval in his tone.

“What are you doing here, Reddington?” she demands, hand clutching the top of her robe together. “Our case is over. _Please_ don’t tell me you have something new for me _now_.”

His smile broadens, and he lifts a large, familiar, brown paper bag in each hand.

“Just dinner,” he says buoyantly, “as ordered. I took the liberty of getting enough to share — I haven’t eaten yet either.”

She gapes at him for a long moment, her mind scrambling. She remembers her fingers fumbling at the phone as she tripped, and flushes horribly.

“I guess…I guess I pressed ‘7’ instead of ‘6’,” she mutters. “Why didn’t you say something?”

He opens his mouth to give her the expected quip or suave rejoinder, but looking at her exhausted eyes and flushed face, what comes out instead is the unvarnished truth.

“It’s been a very long day,” he says simply. “I was lonely.”

Her eyes flash back up to his in clear blue shock. Then, wordlessly, she moves to the side of the door to let him in.

* * *

And so they sit, cross-legged, opposite one another on her motel bed — her still in robe and tee, carefully covering her lap; he, divested of jacket and hat, with his vest unbuttoned and his shirt sleeves rolled up — sharing cartons of Chinese food like the best of friends.

She tells him stories of her time at school, at Quantico, funny things and silly ones — nothing of Tom, or Sam, or the things that cut and hurt. He offers her ridiculous tales of people and places he’s known — no lessons or homilies tonight, just little fractions of his past that seem real.

He’d neatly toed off his shoes before smoothly folding onto her bed, and she can’t stop sneaking glances at his sock feet — they’re strangely sweet. Until, of course, her attention is drawn by the movements of his hands, with their grace and strength; by his wry smile and the laughing pleasure he takes in the bits and pieces she has to offer him.

She doesn’t know, really, when the wanting started, when her apprehension turned to affection, her nerves and mistrust into simple lust. But she does want — oh, she does — and has memorized the clean, straight lines of his face; has categorized his multitude of expressions; has dreamt of the the patterns of moving muscle beneath his skin.

He cares for her, she knows that now as unassailable fact, but she has never caught him looking at her the way she does him; has never seen that flash of heat in the back of his eyes that he has aimed at so many of the polished women they encounter. She wants, almost desperately, to see that look just once, for her; for him to see _her_ , Liz, Elizabeth, a woman, and not just Lizzie, the child he gifted with a second chance over two decades ago.

He’s in the middle of a story now, gesturing with his chopsticks, his other hand sketching in the air. She’s mesmerized, watching it, lets herself, just for a moment, imagine him tracing the lines of her body with that same hand. She shivers a little, and catches his eye.

“Done eating?” he asks, his voice as warm and kind as it almost always is with her.

“Just thinking,” she answers quickly, reddening a little.

“Deep thoughts, then,” he says with a smile. “You looked a million miles away.”

She looks at him, hesitating, his familiar face and larger-than-life presence here, in her space, making her yearn, the warm affection in his eyes welcome and sweet.

She thinks of him, in flashes, breathing again under her hands, lips; coming for her bloodied and torn, fighting; holding her as she cries, again and again; then, kneeling, with a gun pressed to the back of his head. The lives they lead leave no time for wasted opportunities or hesitation, but there is plenty for regret, and she’s suddenly sick of it, of every last pretense left in her life.

“Red,” she says, fast, _don’t stop to think_ , “do you think of me?”

He raises an eyebrow at her, clearly surprised, putting his chopsticks down carefully and pursing his lips.

“I’d have expected you to already know the answer to that question, Lizzie,” he replies slowly. “You and your welfare are…”

“No, not that,” she breaks in, feeling ridiculous and groping for the right way. “I just, I mean…”

_It’s hopeless_ , she thinks unhappily, dropping her gaze. The repeated debacles with Tom have shot her confidence, and the kind bemusement in Red’s eyes is anything but encouraging.

But then, he reaches out and takes her chin in his hand, lifting her head so he can see her face again.

“You know you can tell me anything,” he says softly.

But she can’t, she really can’t, she has no words at all.

So instead, she leans in, grasping at his vest, and fixes her mouth to his.

* * *

It takes him a few seconds to answer her odd, nervy question — her voice so soft and anxious that he needs the play with the chopsticks to distract her from his surprise.

Does he think of her? If he thought any more of her, he’d lose his mind completely — his Lizzie, his shining light and second chance, more precious to him than any jewel, than any knight’s courtly lady. He is wondering just how to explain this to her, how to show her his reverence and care, when all his fine and treasured illusions crumble to dust as she twists her fingers into his clothes and kisses him, her mouth soft and warm and wet.

She isn’t just a beam of light but an explosion of it, a shock to the system that takes his breath and makes his body ache. She takes over everything in that one movement, until she’s all he can see whether his eyes are open or not.

It only lasts one shining moment, or maybe it’s an hour, he’d never be able to pin it down, and then she pulls back with a little hum, looking starry-eyed and smiling at him, everything about her gone pliant like warm wax.

“Lizzie?” He murmurs it softly, not sure what to say or do, off his stride in a way he hasn’t been in a very long time, as if he is seeing her again for the first time.

He touches his mouth without really thinking about it, feeling the echo of her there, changing everything.

* * *

Oh, it’s better, so much better than she’d thought or dreamed — and she’s dreamed plenty — his mouth soft and yielding and welcome. She can’t help the little sound of pleasure that escapes her — she’s wanted for so long, and there it is, _finally_ , that look in his eyes, the realization of something _more_.

He touches his mouth like a man in a dream, and it sends a thrill down her spine. But she knows, if she gives him time, he’ll find a way out of it, find a way to resume his self-appointed role in her life like that flash of recognition never happened.

She shrugs out of her robe and rises to her knees in nothing but an enticingly thin t-shirt and underwear, and watches him flush, eyes warming, fingers flexing almost unconsciously. She can feel her own heat sparking inside, gathering, eager.

“I have this dream,” she says conversationally, stacking containers and leaning past him to put them on the floor. He can’t help but lean into her warmth in return, inhale her faint citrusy scent. “Well, I have a lot of dreams, but this one…this one’s my favourite.” She smiles at him, slow and feline.

“Lizzie…” Still questioning, but firmer, now, with something dark behind it. This woman is not _his_ Lizzie, the idol of decades of patient adoration. This woman is prowling and sensual, making his insides twist into a hot knot, and _what is she_ saying _?_

“You’re in the Box, all shackled up to the chair in that three-piece suit — the suits are ridiculously hot, by the way, though I’m sure I’m not the first to say so. It’s night; there’s no one else around, just you…and then me. I’m walking toward you, just like the first time, the first time we met, only now I’m naked, and you just watch me, silent and hungry.

“You can’t move, but you try anyway, you can’t just sit and wait.” She runs a finger down his cheek, so softly it’s like a breath of air. “You’re already hard by the time I get to you, I can see it, then I straddle your legs and feel you there, and when I kiss you, it’s…oh, it’s explosive, everything we both feel has no other point of release.”

“Lizzie.” A third time, and his voice is just a growl, his face fierce.

She moves closer to him, the space between them empty now, and puts her hands on his thighs, leaning in so close he can feel her breath against his face, pushing him, daring. The heat of her burns through the fabric of his slacks like a brand, and he can scarcely breathe, his mind scrambling to catch up.

“We kiss until we’re both crazy with it — I can’t keep still and you can’t move, and it’s unbelievable. When I can’t take it anymore, when I _have_ to have you inside me, I reach between us and unzip your pants, but that’s all — just enough to slip you out. You’re so hard in my hand, straining to reach me, and then, then I take everything you’ve got. Not even a button is out of place except for your pants while I fuck you, and it’s breathtaking. I always wake up coming…”

“ _Lizzie_.” A fourth time, and this time, any hope for control he ever had shatters like glass, and he wraps a hand around her neck and yanks her into him for a searing kiss. This might be a new idea for him, but right at this moment, he is unable to think of a better one.

Her deliberately coarse words, the flush of rose behind that porcelain skin, the curves of her body beneath her thin shirt — suddenly all he can think of is being with her, getting inside her, exploring every inch of her, and his fingers tighten in her hair. She lets out a sound that sounds like nothing more than a purr of satisfaction.

“Touch me,” she murmurs against his lips. “Raymond, touch me — I’ve thought it, dreamed it, I _need_ it, I need your hands on me.”

Heat floods him in a tidal rush, and he strokes his hands down her back, then under her shirt to smooth over her waist, hips. He shifts so he can slide them around to her breasts, molding, rubbing, stroking, as he drowns in the sweetness of her mouth, tongues tangling, breath hot and short.

The tide within becomes a roaring fury of want, and he breaks away from her mouth to lay a trail of hot, wet kisses along her jaw, pausing to nip at her earlobe, relishing the sound she makes when he bites down. He lets his lips wander down her neck, the curve of it entrancing; tugs her shirt aside to lick at her collarbone before lowering his head to her chest. He lifts a breast to his mouth, drawing on the nipple, sucking hard through thin cotton, pulling thready moans from her as her fingers dig into his biceps hard enough to bruise.

When both nipples are stiff and covered in circles of wet fabric, he pulls away to look at her, to let the cold air of the room hit her, to try and catch his breath and maybe even his sanity. But even as he shifts back, she’s following him, whispering a litany of need into him, how she wants him, his clever hands and supple mouth, his skin against hers; how she wants him inside her with a need she can’t resist any more.

Her fingers fumble feverishly at his shirt buttons, yanking until the fabric actually tears, and she laughs, the sound so intoxicating that he wishes he could bottle it. He sits still, waiting, while she peels off his vest, the pieces of his shirt, laughs himself as she grumbles at his undershirt and pulls it impatiently over his head.

Then, oh then, she’s right there, curling in his lap, her hands gliding over every part of him she can reach, and he’s clinging to her tee like a lifeline. She’s taking her time to tease, planting little lapping kisses along his shoulder, up the side of his neck to his cheek; giving a long pull at his mouth, sucking hard on his bottom lip. She’s rocking into him as her mouth roams, as her fingers dig and scratch and mark; he’s making animal noises of gratification and need, giving her his own words of desire in a hoarse voice.

She finds the scar on the other side of his neck, her mark on him, and nips hard, making his hips flex into her as he moans in an agony of pleasure. They’re nose-to-nose again suddenly, her arms wrapping around his neck, both already lightly sheened with sweat, eyes dilated and wild — hers hot and demanding; his piercing and hungry.

“ _Please_ ,” she says, barely audible.

He schools himself to patience with some difficulty; cups her face in his hands and kisses her, long and deep.

“Undress for me,” he whispers back. “Show me, Elizabeth.”

She shudders, closing her eyes briefly, then unlocks her hands so she can strip off her shirt; kicks out her legs to wriggle out of her panties. His breath catches, looking at her, all creamy skin and slight curves and long legs, draped over his lap. He wants to touch and taste; to bruise, mark, claim.

“Lie down,” he urges, coaxing her with his hands to slide off him onto the bed. “Let me look at you.”

She does so without hesitation, licking her lips, anticipating; her nipples stiffen further and she feels another surge through her core under the heat of his gaze, so intense that it feels like fingertips on her skin.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he says, his voice rough and edgy. He runs a finger down her body from clavicle to toe, dazzled by the faint flush caused by the pressure. “I could never have imagined…”

He backs off the bed reluctantly to divest himself of the rest of his clothes, bending to pull off his socks and step out of everything in a big hasty pile. When he straightens, he sees that she’s watching him, that she has let her legs fall open, that she’s biting her lip as she rubs at her clit. He would have thought it impossible, but he swells further at the sight of her — he’s hard as a stone, throbbing with need, and ravenous for her.

The sight of him, stripped bare, his torso covered in grey-gold fuzz, his cock long and thick, almost twitching in eagerness as he remounts the bed, makes everything inside her tighten deliciously. She’s heavily wet already, her fingers sliding easily; this culmination of weeks, _months_ , of restless dreams, guilty fantasies, and dangerous obsession just so much better than anything her mind could create.

“Here now,” he’s saying, hovering over her, “I thought it was _my_ touch you wanted.”

He lifts her hand from her centre and presses it to the mattress above her head; then, moving smoothly, replaces it with his mouth, making her gasp. Her senses are quickly overwhelmed — the sight of his head between her legs, his shoulders strong and tense; the feel of his tongue lapping and probing, of his shorn hair on her thighs, of his fingers tight on her wrist, of his other hand gripping her hip; the sound of his mouth suckling as he devours her, of her own moans and cries, of the rasp of skin on the cheap motel sheets.

She starts to push into his mouth with mindless little jerks of her hips, the fingers of her free hand twisted into the fabric underneath her. He hums his approval, the vibrations causing another rush of heat; he slips his hand off her hip to drive a finger inside her, then another.

The burning tension is fast becoming uncontrollable, and she’s babbling now, _Red_ , _more_ and _yes_ , _just there_ and _oh, oh, that feels so good_ and _don’t stop_ , and then he’s crooking his fingers inside her and biting ever so gently, and she comes in a screaming, clenching release that shocks her in its intensity.

When she can think again, he’s working his way up and around her body with a series of open-mouthed kisses, sucking dark red marks into her skin, breathing in her scent, hands at her breasts again, kneading and tugging. She’s writhing underneath him by the time their eyes are level, pressing her body eagerly into his and offering filthy suggestions that make him bite down and push back.

He kisses her, when he’s there again, hard and deep, and he tastes of her and she revels in it. She reaches down between them to wrap her fingers around his aching cock, making him grunt into her mouth and quiver in her hand. She strokes the tip through her folds, coating him with her moisture and sighing as she rubs him against her clit. She’s bold and wanton and eager, and his need for her is like a living thing, driving him. She guides him to her entrance, then he flexes his hips and presses into her.

She’s wet with her orgasm and arousal both, but he’s thick and hard, so hard, and she cries out a little in pleasure/pain and clings to him, all arms and legs and possession. He kisses her again and again, deep and slow, stroking her tongue with his, tracing the contours of her body with light fingers, making her whimper and squirm. He rubs at her nipples with large, firm thumbs; whispers his own words of want and need and lust into her mouth, her skin — _so hot, so wet_ and _God, your skin_ and _let me just_ and _oh, the way you feel_ and _Lizzie, Lizzie, I can’t stop_. Everything together causes another rush of moisture and he pushes into her right to the hilt, wanting everything he can get of this soft, clutching heat, pushing against the mattress with his feet until she cries out again and digs her fingers into his back, clawing, not in protest, but to get closer.

They whisper brokenly to each other as he thrusts, their husky words, the wet sounds of their bodies, even the rhythmic creaking of the ancient bed making a music that neither of them will ever forget. She thinks she’s never felt anything as beautiful as his muscles under her hands, as the silken hard heat of him driving in and out. He’s lost in her, in her fierce desire, in her rasping sounds of need and approval, in the wet, hot core of her.

Her swollen clit is pulsing and aching; she arches into him, seeking, rubbing, meeting him thrust for thrust. She makes ardent gasping demands, _harder_ and _more_ and _yes, there_ and _faster, Red_ , and he can feel the orgasm start to uncurl at the base of his spine.

“Now, Elizabeth,” he orders, voice rough in her ear, breath hot on her cheek. “Come for me, _now_ , sweetheart.”

And she does, as if it’s natural to obey, as if it’s that simple; she comes in a pulsing rush that steals her breath and makes her see stars, and she chokes out his name before she has nothing left. Her inner walls pull and flex around him, all greedy suction, and he tumbles over the edge after her in long spurts that leave him trembling and shaky.

He drops into her, swearing under his breath, wrapping around her tightly to try and regain even a semblance of self. She burrows into him, not bothered by his weight, holding him to her and pressing kisses to his chest and shoulders, soothing them both in equal measure.

When he can, he rolls to his side, pulling her with him, tucking her into him, safe and warm and _his_. She puts her hands over his and squeezes, flooded with contentment and wanting to share it. He kisses the top of her head, then rests his cheek there, savouring.

“Stay,” she breathes, needing it, and him.

“I may never move again,” he returns, thinking he’ll never get enough.

As her breath starts to quiet and lengthen, and her body to ease against him; as she starts to slip away into sleep, she hears his quiet laughing rumble.

“Sweet dreams, Elizabeth.”


End file.
